Just One Season in London by Leigh Michaels

Cook’s lemon cakes baking as I came in, and I’m famished from being out in the air all morning.” She burst into the room. “Mama, I met Emily in the village, and she says her aunt is arranging a picnic party to—Oh, I beg your pardon.”
    She stopped on the threshold, almost poised on tiptoe. One small hand clutched the long skirt of her riding habit, while the other was raised to her lips in apology.
    â€œMy daughter,” Miranda said ruefully. “Sophie, this is Mr. Wellingham.”
    â€œHave I interrupted? Well, of course I have. I am so sorry to have interrupted you and your caller, Mama.” She curtsied. “It is lovely to meet you, sir.”
    â€œDo not distress yourself, Miss Ryecroft; I was just taking my leave.”
    â€œBut you must not let me drive you off! Mama so seldom has gentleman callers…”
    Sophie’s eyes widened as she spoke, and Miranda could almost read her daughter’s mind as she put the pieces together. A gentleman calling, alone, on her mother… Sophie’s powers of observation and deduction might be improving, but she obviously had a long way to go yet.
    â€œI see you’ve not been here long enough for her to offer you refreshment,” Sophie plunged on, “but Carstairs will be bringing a tray at any moment.” She perched on the edge of a sofa cushion. “Have you come from a great distance, sir?”
    â€œI live in London—at present.”
    â€œReally? How exciting. But then how did you meet Mama? Have you known her long?”
    â€œSophie!”
    â€œYes, Mama? Oh, do you mean to say I should go and change? Indeed, I must smell of horse.” She wrinkled her nose and jumped up again. “And then there will be no need for Mr. Wellingham to go away, and you can have the most comfortable chat together.”
    Miranda could not stop herself. “Sophie, Mr. Wellingham is not that kind of caller!”
    The instant the words were out, Miranda would have given anything to call them back. Wellingham’s dark gaze met hers, and the challenging glint in his eyes left her breathless, for she understood only too clearly how he had interpreted her thoughtless remark.
    What she had said was literally true; she’d simply meant that his call was business, not a social event, as Sophie obviously believed. But he had heard an insult—deliberate and crude. Carstairs had been right; he was not quite a gentleman, and he knew it. Therefore, he thought she must be warning Sophie that he did not belong in their world. That he was not a fit person for the sister and mother of a viscount to know…
    â€œI regret that I have disturbed you, ma’am.” But the apology was no more than words; it was apparent to Miranda that he didn’t mean it.
    â€œMr. Wellingham, it is I who must beg your pardon. I did not mean to imply…”
    He cut her off crisply. “It is of no importance. I shall return to the village now. I shall be at the inn if Lord Ryecroft returns today.”
    Repeating his name, however, had finally jolted Miranda’s memory loose. “You’re a banker,” she said slowly. Fear slithered along her veins. What has Rye done? Why has he gone to the moneylenders?
    A chill ran down her spine. You have a lovely home , Mr. Wellingham had said. But had it been an appreciative comment or an acquisitive one? I live in London—at present. Had there been a hidden meaning in that brief hesitation?
    Was it possible that Rye had put a mortgage on the manor? He could not sell it, of course. The estate was entailed and had to pass along with the title. But borrowing against the land or the house—he might have found a way to do that. Now that he had full control of his affairs and his money—what there was of it—he would no longer even have to consult trustees before taking such a major step.
    â€œA banker?” Sophie asked. All thought of going off to